Of Poetry, Prisons, and Pastries
by ClairvoyantMoonchild
Summary: Three Alhafran soldiers: a jailer, a guard with a love for poetry, and another guard with a passion for baking, walk into an Inn. A tribute to three characters nobody cares about, but that I found amusing.


**Of Poetry, Prisons, and Pastries**

Being friendly and social wasn't what men did, and certainly not soldiers.

These men were Alhafran guards. Trained to handle all manner of weapons, they were enforcers of the law, proud defenders of the city, and currently bored out of their minds. Not much of note had happened since the Briggs fiasco, but they certainly weren't going to make time getting to know each other. Of course not.

The three of them were enjoying their shared downtime in silence within the Inn, eating their self-made lunches at a table they had paid for, each barely acknowledging the presence of their fellow comrades. They _did_ know each other somewhat, but only enough to know that they all existed. They certainly weren't going to talk to each other.

It wasn't what Alhafran soldiers did, and that was a strong belief among the soldiery.

The jailer agreed, and he stuck to that belief. He had to be harsh, and tough with the lawbreakers, never giving an inch. After Briggs and the other Champa pirates escaped under his watch, the mayor had been bullying him constantly, practically breathing down his neck and warning him against letting any other prisoners get free. Now, he had become harsher and was much stricter, to his fellow soldiers along with his prisoners.

The poet followed that belief too, which was why he pored over his poetry in secret, writing from his heart and soul only when he was alone. He wanted to talk about it, and how he felt about a great many things, but he would surely be laughed at, for soldiers didn't do that sort of thing. Feelings always had to be checked at the door.

The baker, however, acknowledged the existence of that belief among the men who defended Alhafra, but didn't believe it like the others. That was why he had no qualms making a cake or some kind of pastry and giving it to his fellow soldiers as a way of appeasing their frustrations on bad days. But of course, he would only ever leave the treat with a note to the recipient, claiming his wife had made it for them. He had no wife, but he knew none of his acquaintances cared enough to know that. He wanted to be honest and open with his fellow soldiers, but there was no point in being nice to those who didn't care.

As the time passed by in the Inn, the poet's thoughts turned to the words scribbled on his secret parchments back at his home. Within those pages were words that pined for such desires as sailing a boat one day, but also to sit in a large green field away from oceans and deserts.

For the past two weeks, such dreams had changed slightly to include the company of the beautiful shopkeeper of the town. She, who had once cleaned his wounds with her medicinal wares after his fight with a vicious wolf to keep it from entering the town, asking for no money in return, had begun to fill up the pages of his poetry.

As he composed another poem for her in his head, he began to set the words to a jaunty tune he'd heard from somewhere he couldn't remember, and whistled it accordingly.

Immediately, the jailer flinched and threw his bread to the table, rasping, "Hey, shut up."

The poet looked at him in surprise. "What did I do?"

"That song… it's a pirate song. Those Champan rats were whistling it over and over in their cell. I don't want to hear it."

"Fine," the lyrical guard responded, before whistling the tune again.

The jailer growled at this injustice and chucked his cup at the poet. The poet ducked, and the cup sailed over his head, hitting the daughter of the Inn's owner on the head and spilling water all over her. The dazed young woman shook her head to clear the water from her eyes and to regain her bearings before glaring right at the jailer, who went red and kept his head down. She picked up the cup and stomped away to dry herself off.

Both the poet and the baker tried to stifle their laughter, and the jailer hissed at them both, "Shut up, both of you!"

"Watch out, here she comes," the baker gasped, and the jailer whirled around in fright, but the owner was nowhere to be found. He turned back to the baker. "Well, I can't blame you. A glare like that would silence most of the prisoners you get."

"Seriously, what were you trying to accomplish?" The poet asked in astonishment. "If you _had_ hit me, not that you would have with that sissy throw, you'd have just gotten me _and_ the owners angry."

The jailer returned to his lunch, sans water. "Just don't mess with me today."

"Is it the mayor again?" The baker asked, always the helpful one.

"Don't talk to me," the prison guard muttered.

"What about the mayor?" The poet cut in.

"The mayor's been… well, kind of a jerk to him since Briggs got away."

"No, he's been a vermin's rear end!" The jailer growled, instantly forgetting his personal oath to ignore the soldiers. "Won't stop reminding me of what a failure I am as a guard. I oughta tell him what I think of his stupid, bloated- ow!"

The young woman had rapped him on the head, hard. "That's quite enough," she admonished, placing his cup down next to him with more water. "Don't let it happen again."

"Y-yes, ma'am," the jailer quickly said with a nod. She smiled, making him go even redder, and returned to her duties. Snickers behind him told the jailer his fellow soldiers now understood why he had been so embarrassed by his earlier action.

"Don't say anything." He didn't say it harshly this time, and the laughter stopped. The two could see he looked quite pained as he watched her walk away, clearly wanting to go and speak to her, but too afraid or stubborn to do so.

The poet frowned. "I know how that feels, friend," he said, trying to sound consolatory. "You know, the mayor hasn't exactly been the best company with the rest of us either. He's mad at everyone right now, not just you. We didn't do a bang up job stopping Briggs either."

"It's not just the mayor," the jailer replied, tearing his eyes away from the object of his affections, feeling slightly better now that he had his drink back, and had received a smile meant only for him. "It was my responsibility, and I screwed up and let Briggs run off. I know it was my fault. The fact that the mayor keeps harping on it just makes it worse."

Silence reigned for a while before the baker smiled. "Well, just don't let it get to you. Let the mayor bellyache for now. He's bound to forget it once we get some of our own boats up and out there and start that trading ring he wants. Doesn't matter what the mistake was."

"Yeah, yeah…" the jailer shrugged as he downed his water and ate the last of his bread. He stood up from the table. "I'm leaving."

His two comrades watched as he left the Inn and the baker sighed. "Poor guy. I could never stay stuck in that jail for too long."

The poet didn't answer, but he began thinking of another subject for his poems. _Isolation, cell bars, minds of criminals… so much to use._ He was always quick to find some inspiration.

While he pondered, his companion looked over to him. "We should probably do something to cheer him up."

The poet turned to look at him. "Why would you want to do anything for that guy?"

"Because it's a nice gesture. It's not a bad thing to do something nice for your friends, is it?"

"We're not friends."

"Oh, come on. Whatever you call him, we still work together. Besides, you said yourself you know how he feels."

"Maybe I did. So what?" He continued eating his lunch as the baker stood up from the table.

"Well, I thought that having a similar experience would make you a little more sympathetic."

"It doesn't," the poet replied with a mouthful of his food, trying to end the conversation.

"I think she would really love your poetry." The poet nearly choked and looked up in surprise, and the baker chuckled. "You shouldn't just toss away things when you're displeased with them. I think it was 'A Mirror of White and Blue' that you tossed away outside during one of our shifts. You should keep them as a reference so you can get better. Or at least burn them instead, so nobody can find them."

The poet rolled his eyes and returned to his food.

"But seriously, show them to her. I think she'll really like them."

"Goodbye." The poet said his farewell with a tone of finality. The baker sighed deeply and left the Inn, and the remaining soldier stared down at the table, thinking about the aforementioned poem that he had planned to show the shopkeeper before discarding it in frustration after the first three stanzas.

_In a mirror, white and blue  
Reflecting a strange vision  
I only want to see you_

_Gray once more disturbs the hue  
The secret I envision  
In a mirror, white and blue_

_Hiding what I know is true  
Definite, my decision  
I only want to see you_

Finishing his meal, he stood up from the table, passed a tip to the woman who cleared the table of its contents, and left the Inn. He passed through the rest of the day, and scribbled the lines onto the next blank page of his poetry book when he finally arrived at his home. With that, he picked it up and made his way to the town shop.

Two days later, the poet spoke to the baker as they were both on guard duty of the mayor's palace. "Alright, I changed my mind. What did you have in mind for that whiny jerk?" The baker rolled his eyes with good-natured mirth.

Later that night, the jailer found freshly baked sweet bread and a poem about soldier camaraderie anonymously addressed to him.

He groaned and said a few curt words about his fellow soldiers not being men, before biting into the bread and reading over the poem with the beginnings of a smile on his face.

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Disclaimer: What, these are still necessary? *sigh* I don't own Golden Sun and stuff. But seriously, I've always been amused by these three guards of Alhafra, and they actually stuck out to me for being meaningless side-side-side characters that looked like every other soldier in the game. So, I decided it was high time to give them some attention.


End file.
